Alice Friman

 

On Fate, Sidewalks, and Broken Glass

If on a walk, you see the sidewalk suddenly
rise up to greet you, nubs of concrete getting
bigger and clearer, you can bet you're on your way

 

down. This falling business, a slow-motion act.
All this to say you have time to turn your head
to protect your glasses and even stretch out

 

your hands to ease the landing. You’ll do it
automatically. But if you go over backwards,
say at home in your own kitchen, all you'll see

 

is the overhead light fixture you loved and
paid a fortune for, retreating as if yanked up
by its wire, leaving you little time to adjust.

 

Point of view is all. Up or down. All is relative
and connected. You are not alone in this world.
Even the empty glass, its last dregs of milk,

 

reacts to your presence, demanding to be washed.
Or if clean, for goodness’ sake, put it away already–

slam, bang in the cupboard. And don’t drop it.

 

Or if you do, you’ll be on your knees, picking up
broken glass. Be careful. Cutting your hand means
wasting time twiddling thumbs in a hospital’s

 

waiting room instead of tying up your sneakers
and taking that walk you had so looked forward to.

 

The Return

The year I came back, the grapes
never ripened. Stingy with sourness
and puny with envy, they remembered
last time when we tipped our heads back
bursting purple mouthfuls, running
sweet rivers down our chins. And you
laughing. You had stolen those grapes
the way later at my desk, I stole the stars,
plucking them down to save
forever in your eyes.

 

In Missolonghi
where I went after, there where
Byron died of fever and dashed hopes,
the mosquitoes swarm, thick as the fog
that coddles them, and I wonder
if there's some cosmic law that says
things can never again be what they were.
Thomas Wolfe was right. You really
can't go home again. Which is to say,
if you do, there's always one door
that doesn’t open. I know.
I saw it in your eyes.

 

Transfigured

The truth is
I miss the she he lost
in the sweetness of her face.
Harder now, heavier
around the jaw line. A certain
clenching that wasn’t there before.
Still, happiness is what counts.
Pills or shots—whatever it takes. Yet
there’s a missing something, a dearness
around the eyes. A sort
of love me look.

But maybe

it was a find me look I saw, a kind
of plea behind the pinks that
crowded the trellis: the vine
of him, the rope of living
green, rooted solid in the earth,
adamant and climbing. But what
does it matter what I think?
I tell you, I love him, now as well
as then, however way she grew.

 

The Nick Poems

1.

Perfection rested on them for a moment like calm on a lake

—Anne Carson

 

There was no perfection

and no calm

but there was a lake

and he turned to her

Do you know what you're doing?

and she said yes

though deep in her virginity

she knew nothing

but what she wanted

and that—

twenty years later

when again she answered

yes, she said, yes

in a room somewhere

in New York City

where there was no lake

and no calm

only the perfection

of his body—champagne

it was

in the light

coming through

the slats of the blinds.

A beauty mark

there.

 

2.

he can hear her choosing another arrow now from the little quiver

—Anne Carson

 

She chose a sharp one

more a dart

dipped in love potion

to send through the mail

how many now

for twenty years.

A little sting

until he answered

to remind him

without saying

how he once

suddenly

gathered her up

to him

and how at five

when all hope

fell out of the day

she'd watch him

go, his back

never turning

although

he must have

felt the sting

of her longing

burning there

all the way

down the street.

 

3.

you could dress this wound / by what shines from it

—Anne Carson

 

There was a wound

isn't there

always with love

but this

a real one

ripping open

her hand

that surrendered

itself over

to his gladly

gladly for

the burn

of the green soap

his scrubbing

to get the gravel

out, leaving her

a scar she

cherished for

seventy years

for she had fallen

there where he had

hurt her / touched her.

 

4.

An ideal wine grape / is one that is easily crushed.

—Anne Carson

 

It's only a crush her friend said.

For her whole life?

So she took it

like a purple grape

crushed for wine

that day

by the Hudson

glittering behind them

all heat

and summer dazzle

for didn't they

belong to summer

twenty years before?

So she drank it in

drunk on all of it—

but when

he lifted her

high on his chest

and up in the air

his laughter

and joy of her

in his arms

at last at last

she traded

the little left

of her peace

to hold that day

whole and un-

crushable

and yes,

alive

even after he died

(she learned later

on the internet).

 

5.

I had given up hope I grew desperate why did you take so long

—Anne Carson

 

She dreamt of him

intermittently

every couple of years

a dry spell

then suddenly

here comes

another. The

hot wire that

ran through her life

those dreams. Five

maybe six in all.

Each a desperate

search for him.

Each getting

closer

until the last

when she was

87 and he

suddenly turned

fitting his face–

still young–into

her cupped hands

as if it were

home, a place

to stay. There

finally.